Author: belladonnapoetryclinic

Surely your research truly
could have, should have,
shocked the establishment out of
the confusion, this allusion
to the Asian flowering plant
would have offended the resident Dryad of your mother’s reading room Waterhouse.
She, furious and beguiling,
would rather you had washed your locks amongst the other daffodils and then fucked off
away from their sylvan realm
to drum, hum-drum, melancholy,
you and your pedigree dawg on
a Rajisthani hand-loom string
eating black organic lentils
from Notting Hill.

You want world peace and I do too
I see the gentleness inside of you
radiant philosophy
a gradient of joy as we ascend
the concrete steps to the free party
after dusk, no cicadas just cigarette ends
Yours are American Spirit which
taste nice like smoke signals
of the heart and I always liked the
printed blue and yellow
but again Fuck Off

you are smarter than this
so apply that colossal and heritage
mind to dissolving the sunset
and painting a modern picture
of union not that Benetton
hand-holding of the 90’s but
conversation and giant ears
listening, like a hares up on the Heath
in the spring breeze, open.

Come invest yourself in a true way
and I will too.
I will work hard to peel away the
onion skins of city, migration, misfit.
Sell the Waterhouse for refugee bread
and let’s preach on the road
of the endless distractions
we battle today, we who seek
gentleness and mother-branches
to break our fall and green to enrobe us.

Come let’s dance on the table tops;
and I mean the cracked white melamine ones-
auction off the oak dining tables
and death beds,

Come, we are free.

Notes:

London opens its arms to artists of The Old Order. It’s Members Only clubs sink with gold crafted into the charm bracelets of New Brittania, heirlooms of hedonism and the aesthetics of the Modern Romantics. It is possible to build art and microsociety when one has means in West London.

This observation undermines itself as performs it’s own othering. How boring to fall prey to that which you abhor. Societal chains and shoulder chips are boundaries enabling growth of energy. All humans can apply this energy to develop themselves and culture.

But do we have to bring in the personal? Autobiography is a necessary autopsy. From reflecting on it we learn means of freedom including relationally.

It was a middle class delight
a five quid Easter workshop crafting
a miniature stage with backdrops
and tiny props of clay and card
for kids.
Everything under control.
At the end we all promenaded
past each other’s simulacra.

There was a stone henge forced
by a Druidic parent,
a wizard’s incantations realised
in grotesque pipe cleaners and Macbeth’s three hags around a pot.
In one scene a Victorian nanny
was decapitating a child with her
moving arm, a brutal Mary Poppins.

Perhaps they were all channelling
the Easter message, the perfect
puppetry of animation over death,
the confronting of things in neat boxes.
Contained and of interest.